


Nine of Cups

by igrab



Series: Arcana [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 20:29:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igrab/pseuds/igrab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She knew, then, that the moment had passed - her chances, minute at the best of times, had gone as surely as her name. He would never love her, and she would likely never see him again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nine of Cups

When she came to, she was lying on a very familiar tiger rug.

"Ah. There you are. I was beginning to wonder if you'd taken his poison after all."

Irene blinked - her eyes felt heavy, her throat paper-dry, and when she pushed up to a sitting position, every muscle in her body ached and twanged.

The room came into focus, and the face of Sherlock Holmes was far too close for comfort.

"How was death, my dear?"

She wet her lips. "How Lord Blackwood had the strength to burst that concrete after feeling like _this_ , I'll never know."

The man chuckled; the infuriating man, the beautiful man, the man that had just gotten her killed - and, incidentally, the man who had given her the means by which to avert it. Moriarty's great weakness, he'd told her, was that he was single-minded. He had no need of anything besides Reodan's transmitter; the rest of Blackwood's plan was entirely ignored. Thus, the draught of death that could fake even Dr. Watson could conceivably be used against even the Devil himself.

It had been a risk, a great risk. Irene knew this, and yet her options had been so slim. Die at the hands of Moriarty, for a weakness she refused to give up - that was inevitable. If she ran, she would only die in a different way, at the hands of a man with a gun. The only way out was to capitulate; the only way forward was to foil.

"And where will you go now? You're a free woman." 

She only just noticed, now, that his home was full of plants. She didn't want to know. 

"Are you sure you don't want to turn me in to the authorities? This is your last chance, before Irene Adler is gone forever."

Holmes - and what was he wearing? It was a sort of a - oh, dear, she _really_ didn't want to know - crouched down of a sudden at her side, looking her straight and sharp in the eyes. "He would kill you," he said. "You would be dead before they passed sentence. I cannot, in good conscience, send anyone at all into the arms of that madman, least of all someone I..."

She felt her heart thump uncomfortably in her chest. She waited.

"....owe. You did help us greatly in the matter of Lord Blackwood; I am simply seeking to repay that debt."

He would not meet her eyes. She knew, then, that the moment had passed - her chances, minute at the best of times, had gone as surely as her name. He would never love her, and she would likely never see him again.

"...Norton," she murmured.

"I'm sorry?" he turned back to her with his quicksilver smile, which she refused to answer. There was no sense in pretending she was happy about any of this - grateful, yes, as one is always grateful when offered life as an alternative to death. But she was not happy.

"I married him as a precaution, as an easy out. He never knew my name and he was dying, he just wanted someone to love, for his final months."

Holmes smirked. "Physically, I presume." 

Irene leaned over and smacked him on the leg, lightly. "Don't be crass. He was a fine gentleman with a very tragic disease and he's left everything to his dear widow. I'll be quite safe."

"You're sure he doesn't know," he warned, and Irene knew, of course, who he was referring to.

"...I'm sure," she murmured. "I've read my dossier. It's quite as impressive as yours, though with one or two minor differences. He doesn't know. I would never have worked for him without an escape route."

"And I am certain you have a great many of those." He looked, for a moment, as if he was going to do something - kiss her hair, perhaps, but he too knew that the moment had passed and what was done between them was done. Or rather, that it would never be. "Do be careful, Irene. Leave the country. Go where he'll least expect you. Go to Paris."

She frowned up at him. "Paris, really?"

"He'll expect you on a ship for somewhere warm." It was true, she knew it as well as he did, but hearing him say it like that - she wasn't sure if she was touched or offended.

"I did quite well for myself before you came along, Sherlock. I'll be equally fine without you."

She thought he might have said "without me, you would be dead", but she told herself she was only imagining that kind of concern.

♜

Paris was lovely in the winter. She'd always thought so, but particularly now, when it suited her melancholy. Ordinarily, she would have been the life of the Parisian socialite circle - instead, she was wrapped in a thick wool suit with her chest bound, and her hair all tucked up out of sight. She would lay low, keep a finger on the pulse of nations as Moriarty's plan shifted into high gear. Holmes had assured her that he had it under control; for the sake of her own heart, she had to believe him.

But Irene Adler, for all that was left of her, had to make sure.

She'd followed him across the Channel, followed him into the city and watched Moriarty's men watch him book a room at a hotel with one bed, watched him slip away from their watch and into the country. She followed.

He'd tossed her handkerchief over the edge; hadn't waited to see if she, on the lower deck, would catch it. So he knew, then. He knew how Moriarty had controlled her for so long; knew when her life had ceased to mean anything. That she did not have much time, no matter whether he'd saved her life or not. It didn't matter to her. Nothing mattered.

Nothing, perhaps, except keeping Sherlock Holmes alive to see this through.

♜

"Mademoiselle Irina!"

The gypsies greeted her enthusiastically; she'd never been to this particular camp, but, as always, her reputation preceded her.

"Bonjour Henri, it's so lovely out here. How has the trade fared?"

They spoke of pleasantries. Irene sold them that most precious of all gems - information, and they paid her in kind, telling her all sorts of things she was sure she'd use eventually, or sell to someone else. She kept on the outskirts of the camp until the sun set; then she slipped among them, traded her specially-made boy's clothes for a set of something less formal. She dirtied her face, teased her hair, wrapped up in a threadbare shawl and scratched at the soil until it was buried deep in her nail beds.

She danced with Doctor Watson, as a test of sorts. He may have had a little to drink, but certainly not enough. He was oblivious. Her disguise was perfect.

She was about to slip away again when a small hand caught her around the wrist - she stopped, her heart jumping into her throat. 

"Yes?" she said, turning, and - oh. Oh.

"Miss Adler," the young woman murmured. "Where is my brother."

Oh, oh, no. No no no. This - why. _Why_.

"I don't know who you're talking about," she tried, but she couldn't lie to René's sister. The resemblance was uncanny; Simza was, if possible, even more beautiful.

"Did he send you? Why is he trying to kill me? _Where is René?_ "

She cupped Simza's face in her hands - the only way to quiet her, before her voice rose and her cover unusable. "I don't know, dear. I'm on the run from him myself. But I believe our mutual friend," and she tilted her head towards the only tent still lit, where she knew Holmes would be, "will be able to help. He is _very_ good."

"Better than the Professor?"

Irene hesitated. She didn't want to - she couldn't, not when all of this was so complicated and only time would tell. "...He will fix this," she whispered. "One way or another. Unlike me," and the smile on her face turned sad, "he is a pure soul at heart."

She didn't wait to see what the gypsy woman would say to that; the guilt was eating her up inside. She had told the truth. She didn't know what became of René. Only that Moriarty had used Irene to catch him - a pretty thing baited on a hook, to earn the man's loyalty. Moriarty had promised him her love - an empty promise, and Irene had told him so, but men in love do not listen. It wasn't the first time Irene had wished she could trade her face for an uglier one.

♜

She slipped into the tent just in time to catch the absolutely fantastic vision of Holmes, _dancing_.

He caught sight of her instantly and stuttered to a stop, tripping over a pillow. "Oh for-- _Irene_. What in God's name are you doing here? You look awful."

"Such was the intention," she said, helping him settled back onto the bench. She hadn't intended to be able to fool _him_. He could probably spot her across a sea of people in a full-cover cowl. "And why else do you think I'm here? I want to help."

He glared at her with such venom she actually took a step back. She'd never seen that particular expression on him - one of the darkest spike of anger, deep-rooted in fear. "You will _not_."

"You told me to come to Paris; I assumed." Irene, of course, was not so easily frightened away. She settled into a seat, spreading her legs like a proper gypsy and looking at him directly, not filtered through her lashes or tucked under a hat. "And you're looking for René. I know him."

"No," he said, shortly, and Irene could hear just how much it scared him. She took quite a bit of pleasure in that, fruitless though it was. "...I mean to say, I can't let you. This is far more dangerous than anything you or I have gotten ourselves into before. The more people involved, the more dangerous it becomes."

"...And yet you're cavorting with an entire company of gypsies," she added sweetly, gesturing outside.

He frowned. "We came here for information, and information only. Please," and she had never heard him say that, not like this. Not like he meant it. "Please, Irene. If you love me, you will listen when I say that this is something you cannot do."

She stared down at the ground, her lips pressed in a thin line. "That isn't fair," she whispered.

He smiled, and out of the corner of her eye she could see that it was a sad one; so very sad. "Life isn't fair, mon ange. But there really is nothing you can - " He stopped, though, and frowned. She looked up.

"...Sherlock?"

"Actually," and his head snapped up; he stared right at her as if he could see through her, into her soul. "There _is_ something you can do."

"Tell me," she said, and spread her hands, palm up, towards him. "I'll do anything."

"...I need you to go on ahead of us, to Reichenbach."

♜

She hadn't needed to tell Holmes where she would be; he always did know how to find her. That was another thing Moriarty had not been able to do. But then, Holmes had access to a community that Moriarty would never be able to be seen with, and the communication paths between inverts were, by necessity, quite excellent. So Irene took out a room in a particular part of town under a particular psuedonym that Moriarty would never have bothered to know about; and Holmes was able to find out exactly where she was in a matter of minutes. 

She answered the door wearing nothing but a chinese robe, trusted Holmes to know if he was being followed, and let him in.

'Him' actually turned out to be two of them, and Irene was rather surprised to see her. Simza, the gypsy fortune-teller, René's dear sister.

She gave Holmes a look that clearly said _And what is she doing here?_ To which Holmes replied silently, _Explanations are overrated. You're in love with me, so you'll do anything I ask._

Irene hated being in love.

"You've gone yellow, my dear," he said by way of greeting. 

She smiled. "It's called blonde."

Simza was looking from one to the other; she looked so wary, so nervous. Irene wondered, again, what it was that made Holmes bring her here. She knew even less about his plan than she'd known about Moriarty's - which wasn't saying much. She knew the bombs were his doing, of course - knew that René was important, but more so for his dedication and utter disposability than anything specific. She knew he wanted a war. That was all.

"Miss Morton, this is Lady Simza - "

"We've met," the gypsy said, and Irene felt her heart break a little at the hostility in her tone. In brighter light, she only looked better. If Simza had been her brother - 

Well. Best not to think of that.

Holmes smiled his condescending smile. "She needs a dress," he said, shortly. "We're going to a very fancy party and I need your expertise."

"I thought you liked picking out dresses," Irene called over her shoulder. She'd already begun to head for her closets; she _did_ like a chance to play dress-up.

"It's not the dress I'm worried about, per se," and she could hear the striking of a match and the familiar heady smell of his personal tobacco blend, "but the everything else. It's come to my attention that I am not nearly as skilled putting makeup on for anything but a stage performance, and I don't trust anyone else. She needs to be perfect."

Irene came back into the room, a crushed ruby dress draped over one arm. "He's going to be there, isn't he."

Holmes grinned around the pipe. "Oh yes."

He didn't need to say more. She shooed him away and got to work, pulling out all the stops. Every evidence of gypsy had to be erased from Simza's presence, and more than that - he knew what René looked like. She had to become invisible.

"...You really don't know, do you," the gypsy girl said quietly, as Irene's fingers gently pinned up her new, perfect curls.

"...No," she said. "I wish I did." That, too, was true. But more than that, she wished she could have loved him enough to keep him out of this.

"He was very fond of you," she ventured, gently, as if she wasn't sure whether it was all right to talk about this or not. "He spoke of you often - in his letters. They were mostly about you. I must have a whole book of drawings of your face by now."

Ah, so that was how she'd recognized her. Irene wasn't surprised. René had been such an excellent artist, and a rare one that could capture the true nature of a thing rather than simply its appearance. He had seen in her the spirit of herself, not just the Irene Adler or the Irina or the Morton. 

"...I must tell you - I did not love him as he loved me," she said, before Simza could continue. "It isn't - I wish I could have. He was a wonderful man. But - "

"There was someone else," Simza finished, interrupting her. "C'est bien. Monsieur Holmes is very lucky."

Irene's hands fell still. Was she saying...?

"It isn't that," she added, quietly, as she draped a fine necklace around Simza's throat - gold and rubies, one of Irene's favorites. Her fingers brushed the back of her neck as she delicately fastened the clasp. "...I could have loved him, but not in the way he wanted. Men are - I do not - " Oh, how to say it? She'd never had a problem discussing her preferences before. Holmes had known. It was the only reason he let her kiss him. "...I prefer the fairer sex in my bed," she finally managed to get out.

Simza turned and smiled, and Irene felt her breath catch. It was as if the dress had been made for her, made to make her beautiful, to bring out everything noble and fine that she deserved.

 _You're too old to be doing this,_ her mind told her. _There's no point._

But her heart said, _You're running out of time,_ and when Simza leaned in and kissed her - soft as a kitten and whisper-quiet, what she was saying was, _You deserve this._

Irene knew she couldn't attend the ball, not with Moriarty there. But she promised Simza this wouldn't be the last they'd see each other. She promised, because maybe if she promised, maybe if she had something to live for, she would feel alive for one more moment.

♜

On his way out, he had given her a letter, and it wasn't to be opened until an hour before midnight.

That only gave her ten minutes to get to the bottom of the Falls.

Consequently, she was all out of sorts, and she'd only time to throw on whatever was laying around, which happened to be Simza's discarded gypsy clothes. They were a little small, but they smelled like her, and Irene didn't know what on earth Holmes was playing at but if she died without returning these, she was blaming him _entirely_.

She heard a man scream; recognized the timbre of the voice. Moriarty.

 _Oh_ , she thought, and her heart felt so light it almost felt like flying. _He's done it._

She spent the next few hours fishing him out of the river, which was exactly as much fun as it sounded, but she didn't cough once all night and the look on his face when he saw her was nothing short of bliss.

"You ruined all my plans," he muttered, as she carried him back to her place and wrapped him in blanket after blanket. "Why didn't you tell me earlier how ill you were?"

"It wasn't your business to know," she said, not unkindly. "You made that very plain. I seem to recall there being handcuffs involved."

He made a short, derisive noise and sneezed, wretchedly. "I was all set to let it end. I thought I could entrust him to your care." She knew who he meant. It was always 'the Professor' with Holmes; when he named no one, he always meant the Doctor.

She smoothed his damp hair back from his forehead. "I'm sorry," she said, and meant it. "For what it's worth, I would have done my best."

"For what little time you have," he said bitterly, and it still broke her heart knowing that the bitterness was for John Watson, not her.

"It's for the best. If he loves you half as much as I do, and he does, your death would have broken him."

But Holmes remained stubborn, staring at the wall. "He thinks I am. Dead, I mean."

She blinked. "Whyever would you give him that impression?"

"Because it doesn't matter!" he snapped. "He's _married_. He went and got married and I would rather be _dead_ than live without him."

Irene had known, all along - of course she'd known, one would have to be blind to not see it. She'd always fashioned that there was a bit of a parallel there - Holmes pining for Watson, and she, for him. And now she saw yet another similarity - they both longed for death, for life without love was no life at all.

"Holmes," she said quietly, and she only used his last name when she wanted him to really, truly listen. "I am dying. That, I cannot change. I used to think it was all there was - that my life, so soon to be over, was not worth anything."

She went quiet for a moment, so he prompted gently. "And?"

"...Life is short for all of us," she whispered, and turned to press her lips to his temple, her face crumpled with pain. "But it is worth living. _You_ are worth something. You are more than your work, more than your mind, more than the people that love you and the people that hate you. You are what _you_ love." And she swallowed that lump away, because if he didn't love her, she surely wouldn't be here in this moment; but they were both too alike and too separate to be one. "If you love him - you cannot leave. Your love has changed him in ways he doesn't even know, and will continue to do so. As I've changed you, mon coeur. And you me."

He held her for the longest time, his arms shaking, his fingers gripping so tight that they would surely leave marks. 

"And what of you?" he whispered, unable to respond in any coherent way. "By your own logic, you cannot leave me, either."

She was wetting his hair even more, now, with her tears. "You know where to find me," she said.

♜

When Holmes came to the gypsy camp, she was already gone. They had burned her body, scattered her ashes from the top of the Eiffel Tower, and when Holmes wrapped Simza of the red eyes into his arms, he thanked her.

"For what?" she said, purely and honestly. Like she was the one who should be thanking him.

"For coming to my funeral," he said with a twisted smile. "...And for loving her. She needed someone who could make her happy."

Simza's eyes shaded over and the small, delicate smile dropped from her face. "I only wish I'd had more time," she said. "I almost feel like I didn't know her at all, like nothing we had was real."

Holmes shook his head. "Believe me - what you saw of her was something more than anyone has ever had," he muttered. "For the first time in her life, with you, she felt like she was worth something."

It wasn't enough, but then, it never would be. Life wasn't fair at the best of times; at the worst, even less so. But what Simza had given Irene and she, in turn, to him, was something that could never be bought or sold or taken away.

A second chance.


End file.
